


Heavenly Things

by masterofesoterica



Series: An Interlude [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Severus Snape Lives, Sirius Black Lives, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13287162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterofesoterica/pseuds/masterofesoterica
Summary: Snape wakes up in the Hospital Wing after the Final Battle. He's free. Theoretically.





	1. Another May 1998

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation or coda to An Interlude. This may make more sense if you read An Interlude. It's not really what I planned to write as a follow up, but here it is.
> 
> Additional content warning that there is depiction of mental health issues and suicide ideation in this story.

_Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt_

Severus Snape opened his eyes in the Hospital Wing. It must have been close to dusk, as pale pink light streamed in from the open windows. He did not remember anything from after the Shrieking Shack. He thought he’d seen Lily—the one person who’d never demanded anything of him—demanding that he _live_. There had been something angry in her lightning green eyes.

He had served Lily willingly; he had chosen her to be his real master. Voldemort and Dumbledore had his body and his life, but Lily had always had his soul. At this very last moment she had abandoned him—rejected him again. Had he not suffered enough? Did he not deserve rest? _Live_ she said, when it was the last thing he wanted. He thought of the solution of belladonna—the recipe that he’d committed to memory. Unbidden, tears sprang to his eyes.

More time passed, during which he was only aware of the wetness against his cheek, his slow but undeniable breathing, and the setting sun. He could see the stars then, the shining spirals with their hidden meanings sprawled out against the sky. The skies above Hogwarts were as clear as they had always been. If only he could get up from the bed, and stick his head out of the Hospital Wing window, he knew he would see the black lake arrayed before him, alive with the reflection of stars.

There was pain certainly, but it faded to nothing beneath the presence of his tears. Snape felt that he wanted to see the lake. It was an easy thing, to sit up, to demand the body work, to ignore the ache of bones and muscle for the sake of a whim.

Someone must have undressed him, and put him in a white hospital gown. He felt an irrational stab of embarrassment and shame at the thought that they might have seen his clammy pale skin scattered with scars, and the network of bones all too visible underneath. It was a stupid thought, of course: whoever had undressed him would’ve been too preoccupied with the blood.

Snape drew the blankets back and found the flagstones with his feet. They were cold. Tentatively, gripping the edge of the mattress, he stood up. His body, unused to the action, shook. Madam Pomfrey, or whoever had dragged him out of the Shrieking Shack, had put him at the very far end of the Hospital Wing, a partition separating his bed from the rest of the ward. The curtains were not drawn on the large, diamond paned windows. They were only five steps away. He took each step slowly and deliberately, feeling each tremor in his limbs.

The Hogwarts grounds were a marvel. Was Harry Potter dead? Who else was dead? Had Voldemort been defeated? Snape found that the riot of thoughts in his head seemed to subside slightly when he leaned his face against the cool glass. He could see the velvety blackness of the grassy slopes leading down to the lake. He could see the beech trees, their thick trunks made ghostly in the moonlight. He could see the winding paths where students of many generations had carved out walkways in the grounds. He could see the white sheen on Dumbledore’s tomb, a small speck almost near the Forbidden Forest. He could see, beyond it all, the black surface of the lake, moving according to its own forces.

Somewhere, on these grounds, others had died. Somewhere, on these grounds, history had been carved out in tiny gestures and words too little thought-out and too quickly spoken. He had left no Last Will and Testament. He should’ve always been buried here—out there—swaddled in a winding sheet. If he were dead now, perhaps they would’ve buried him behind the Anglican church in Cokeworth, interred beside his mother and father. Snape wished he did not have to think of these things. He wished he did not have to think about anything at all.

Tobias had taken him to see Severus’s grandfather’s name once, carved into the side of a slab of stone. One name, amongst a list longer than he had been tall. The grey slab had been something more than a tomb.

 

* * *

 

 

When he woke, he was again lying in a bed of the Hospital Wing, sheets pulled up to his chest. The sunlight was golden this time, though the clouds over the hills suggested rain.

“What _were_ you thinking! You should’ve summoned me immediately...” Madam Pomfrey’s eyes flashed, and she pointed at the small communication orb on the bedside table, “Instead I find you out of bed and slumped against the wall. You’re in no fit state to be out of bed.”

Snape opened his mouth to speak, but found that he could not make his voice work.

“Healer Smethwyck said you might have suffered damage to your throat; it may take some time to heal. Although he predicts it _will_ heal. I will have him speak to you directly as soon as possible. In the meantime…” The Hogwarts Matron reached into a pocket of her robes and pulled out a small notebook and stubby pencil. “If you need anything?”

 _What happened?_ His writing was a scrawl, his hands still unsteady.

“Voldemort is dead. And… Harry has told us of your part. I wanted to say—that is, apologise—for the way we’ve distrusted you.”

Snape grimaced and shook his head, in a way that he hoped conveyed what he meant. Then he wrote quickly: _Harry Potter?_

“Harry is alive and well. He will want to speak to you himself, I’m sure. I will tell him you have woken up at last.” Madam Pomfrey smiled and pressed his hand briefly, “I am very pleased to see you awake, Severus. Rest now.”

And to his surprise, Snape felt himself slip once again into a slumber.

Darkness swirled in his dreams. There were distorted visions of fields, and thunderstorms, and tall towers. He was spinning, or walking, or lying still. He was in a castle, or a house, or at the bottom of a river. He was lying in a bed, tiredness tying his body down.

Faces swam around him. He could not see one he recognised—but an eyebrow here, and a nose there.

Lily’s eyes were set into the face of a cat. And the cat had climbed up into his bed and was mewling at him most pathetically. He reached for its ears to scratch, but it turned away. He grasped it by its tail which it didn’t like at all. It began to speak…

“Professor! Professor Snape?”

But it was not a cat at all.

Harry Potter was meant to be a dead boy. He had a dead woman’s green eyes.

“You’re awake, Professor Snape! I’m glad you’re awake.”

Snape wondered with a strange anger whether he would be the only person who could not express gratitude at being still alive—and whether he’d be subject to this over-emotional charade every time he saw anyone he knew.

Harry waited until Snape opened his eyes fully, and sat up a little in his bed.

The boy’s eyes were earnest and clear. Perhaps there was no deception in them. In the privacy of his mind, Snape could let himself feel the stuttering wish that the boy was genuine in his hope and gratitude. Perhaps—if Lily was here—she would… But she was not here; and the most he had seen of her for the past twenty years had been the delirious conjuring of blood loss and snake venom.

The rest of Harry Potter’s face was solemn. He sat stiffly on the chair beside Snape’s bed, and kept tapping his foot, as though nervous.

“Oh good, Professor! You are awake. How are you feeling?” At Snape’s flat, still sleep-riddled stare, he stumbled on, “Silly question of course. You must be feeling like, uh—that is, you must still be in pain.”

Snape nodded slightly, the movement sending tiny spasms all throughout his body.

“Madam Pomfrey said you were awake, and wanted to speak to me?”

Snape wanted to shake the boy—take him by the shoulders and demand him how he was still alive, after all that—after Dumbledore’s well-laid plans. Snape wanted to ask why he had saved him—when he hated him—when he himself had so little intention to live, after all. But these thoughts lay in a confused and heavy lump in his mind; and at any rate, his voice did not work. Instead, he scrabbled for the small notebook that the Matron had given him, and pointed to the first scribbled question on the page. _What happened?_

To his great relief, Potter was not sparing in any details. Though it evidently took Harry some effort, he related all that had happened during that year—the Horcruxes, the Elder Wand—and what had happened that final night. When Harry finally fell silent, the both of them were exhausted.

 _Thank you._ He wrote, unhesitatingly in his notebook, and Harry nodded.

 _And for saving me._ Snape wrote, after a longer pause.

“It’s not really me you have to thank. It’s uh—Sirius actually. He knew what to do. He gave you Blood-Replenishing Potion and something for the wound. He brought you here and uh—saw to it that you were treated. Demanded it, in fact—quite forcefully.”

Snape closed his eyes. Harry knew it was a dismissal, yet he lingered uncertainly, looking as though he wanted to speak.

 _Say what you want._ Snape scrawled over the notebook.

“It’s just that… No, it’s nothing, Professor Snape. Please rest. I will come again soon.” The Boy Who Lived Despite Everyone’s Worst Intentions smiled at him.

Snape drifted again into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Harry was indeed back by Snape’s bedside, looking cheerful.

“Madam Pomfrey said that your throat is more or less recovered. You can speak?”

Snape nodded. “Yes,” he whispered.

It was almost as if Potter had been longing to hear what Snape had to say, now that he was not obliged to listen to and follow a single one of Snape’s instructions. If only Potter had been so eager to listen when he had been a student—then he might have actually learned something. Now Snape’s voice would never fully recover—the healers from St. Mungo’s had said that the trauma had been to some extent irreversible. He would always speak in a low rasp. He could use spells to amplify his voice when needed of course, or create a magical device for doing so. As far as permanent consequences went, he had escaped lightly. He did not whether to be grateful or infuriated.

Potter was still looking at him with his head tilted, as though reading the thoughts passing through Snape’s head. The boy had picked up something of Dumbledore’s twinkling stare.

“I have something to return.”

Harry held up the vial of memories which Snape had given him when he thought he was dying. Snape’s eyes were fixated by the swirling eddies of silver—not quite liquid, not quite gas. He made no movement to take the vial, so Harry set it carefully on the bedside table. If Harry thought anything of the bare table, empty of cards or flowers from well-wishers, he said nothing of it to Snape.

“Thank you,” Harry said, “for showing them to me. I know—well—I… You told me everything at last. Anyway, thanks. I mean… I already thanked you, but I don’t know that it could be enough…”

Potter had a damnable way of stumbling over his words that eradicated any sort of sense or semblance of intelligence. But the boy was determined to plough on after all.

“I mean—I know you wouldn’t have given this to me if you thought you’d live… Lily, and your life… Dumbledore said it was the best of you—and I do believe him…”

 _So, the boy comes to the point at last._ “You think it disgusting,” Snape whispered.

“No! No, that’s no it at all! Your Patronus. The doe—it was, I saw it—she was beautiful. How can it be disgusting?” Harry shook his head. “That’s not what I wanted to say at all. Only that—if you want to never speak of it to me, or anyone, I understand. You won’t have to show anyone… Tell anyone about my mum—and you. The Aurors have questioned me, and Kingsley, who is currently acting Minister, has agreed that there will be no prosecution. You’re free to—well, do whatever.”

“Happy ending—nice and tidy, then isn’t it,” Snape said, and sneered.

Snape watched as the boy frowned, and then said, quite abruptly and fiercely: “Yes! It is a happy ending, you know. As it should be! Remus, Tonks, and Fred, and Colin, and Dobby—they’re all dead. But I’m happy that I’m alive—and that Ron and Hermione are alive—and that Voldemort is gone forever. I’m not naïve. Things still need fixing. But I _am_ happy. That’s not wrong.”

Harry looked down, as though abashed at the speech he had just given. He sat down heavily, and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Well, I’m still trying to be happy, properly. Ginny says… Well, I’m trying okay? And _you_ shouldn’t sneer. It’s not weak.”

“No, it’s not weak, Potter. I know that.” Snape found to his surprise that he honestly believed the words he had just uttered. But he was tired of this conversation; something in him seethed that begged to be let out—but he knew he could not allow it to.

“You called me a fool who wears his heart proudly on his sleeves—do you remember? During those Occlumency lessons.” Potter winced as though remembering the full, excruciating experience of those brief weeks. “And you said I should master myself. I did, in the end, though not in the way you expected.”

“You did,” Snape said, in a voice that was more sanguine than he felt.

“You succeeded in saving me—in keeping me alive.”

How could the boy be so benevolent, Snape wondered idly. He offered forgiveness so easily, like a saint who demanded no tribute and no repentance. But Snape could not easily believe that forgiveness was his to give at all.

“Uh, look. I’m—I wasn’t the greatest student and even before you—before Dumbledore died—I thought you were… Well, maybe even worse than Voldemort. I was wrong about that, Professor. I hope you can accept my apology. I don’t know that we could be friends exactly…”

“There’s not need to call me Professor, anymore, Potter.” On an impulse, Snape held out his hand, which Harry did not hesitate to shake briefly.

After a few seconds of silence, Harry snorted. “That was rather rude of me, uh, last year,” he said, a little sheepishly.

Snape laughed, a harsh rasp, but there was a little genuine mirth behind it.

Silence stretched between them, before Snape said, hesitantly, “You’re… It’s good that you’re alive Potter. Don’t—don’t put yourself in more danger than necessary.”

Harry smiled as though he understood what Snape meant exactly.

“Snape,” Harry paused, as though unused to the name, “um, I’m glad we didn’t end up shouting at each other… And I’d like it if we could, you know, talk more. Only if you wanted to though. Uh, thank you. Get well, please.”

Snape did not point out that he could no longer shout at Potter even had he wanted to. He gave the young man a nod, which Harry contented himself with.

If he turned his face a fraction, he would again be able to see the vial of memories swirling by his bedside.

 


	2. Another July 1998

_Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set_

 

In July, Snape was released from the Hospital Wing. Potter had not come back to visit. Nor had anyone else. It should not have bothered Snape so.

It came and went still, that sense of wanting to disappear. He recited the recipe for the solution of belladonna in his head. He could picture each ingredient on the shelves of his office—his old office—from the time before he had killed Dumbledore. He could picture each container jar and each sprig of each plant.

But that day in July, he stepped out of the Hospital Wing, he felt the warm breeze on his face as he stepped into the Scottish summer.

_Step One. Prepare a potion base of valerian and powdered daisy root._

“What d’you think you’ll be doing when you’re old, Sev?” Lily had once said, her eyes (almost the same colour as the green grass) fixed upon him.

“How old?” He hadn’t been able to imagine himself older, even back then.

“Dunno,” she had said, “fifty or sixty or seventy?”

“What do you think you’ll be doing?”

“Oh, I’d love to travel you know. Go everywhere around the world. Spend time with my ten grandkids maybe! Make up my own charms that do absolutely useless things!”

“Okay,” he had said lamely.

“Of course, we would get together for tea and I’d listen to you complain about everything,” Lily had smiled then, and Snape had not been able to pretend that he was not buoyed by her faith in their friendship. Her faith in the longevity of their friendship.

“Maybe I’d retire and do some beekeeping in Sussex,” he had muttered.

“Don’t be silly! You’d never retire, Sev. You’d be such a famous detective-potioneer-duellist-librarian-wizard pop star that you’ll be in constant demand. Always on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Lines of people begging for your wisdom!”

“Don’t mock me,” he had said, but inside he had been flattered by her faith _in him_. No one else had thought he’d amount to anything at all.

“When you _finally_ had some spare time in your schedule, then you’d remember your old friend, Lily!” Then she’d poked him in the ribs, and tried to tickle him. He had ducked his head, so she could not see the blush which suffused his face.

And then—all these years later—her son had the temerity to tell him, ineloquently as usual, _you’re free to do—well, whatever_.

Severus had never thought he would be old, even before there had been a war, even before his only connection to anything which resembled _living_ had cut him out of her life. Now he was thirty-eight, and he was already an old man.

_Step Two. Crush twenty-six dried fairy wings into a fine sand. Sprinkle over the potion base and let simmer._

Being the holidays, the castle and the grounds were blissfully empty. He had the whole day in front of him. He had strength enough now to walk some distance without needing to rest.

He was wearing slacks and a shirt in lieu of his heavy black teaching robes. He carried no suitcase, because he owned nothing. Oh, things collected around him, of course—books, journals, papers, potions ingredients, that was all inevitable—but none of it was really his… None of it meant anything, really. He had his faithful yew wand in his pocket. He had the summer. He was _free_.

Except that he wasn’t really.

Snape walked through the empty corridors. Where was Minerva and the others? They had spent the good part of the last two months rebuilding the castle, reinstating wards and mending the physical damage. Now, they were nowhere to be seen. They had been friendly to him once; they had trusted him. Minerva and he had bickered fiercely over the state of the Inter-House Quidditch competition. Filius and he used to trade news of developmental Charms over breakfast. Some things were unforgiveable after all, he supposed, and that was only to be expected.

Now he was standing in the Entrance Hall. It was beautiful. As beautiful as when he had first seen it at the age of eleven. The hourglasses with their four differently coloured gems glinted in the sun. For so long he had swelled with pride when he had seen the green hourglass filled up.

He bid it goodbye.

_Step Three. Place thirteen sprigs of nettles, collected in the spring, in the potion base. Stir three times counter clockwise._

When he had first arrived, they had come on row boats, looking up into the lights of Hogwarts castle with awe. He had held Lily’s hand in his own as they had crossed the water. The water sparkled gold and green in the summer sunshine. He wanted nothing more than to be borne over those waves again—to the other shore which would not be mundane Hogsmead but something more like Avalon, that fabled land in the mist.

Snape stood by the edge of the lake, black pebbles beneath him. How long he been there? He did not remember walking here at all.

A shadow came over him, and he looked up. “Good morning, Hagrid.”

“Headmaster,” the half-giant said, perhaps a little deferentially, perhaps a little sad.

“I’m not the Headmaster any longer, Hagrid,” he said. Hagrid had to lean down a little to hear his whisper.

“All recovered?” Hagrid bent down and picked up a flat stone, turning it over and over in his hand.

“I’m free to go,” Snape said. He did not mean to sound defensive. “I thought—I might take a boat.”

“You won’t find them here, Professor. They’re all kept in the boathouse in the summer.”

“I see.” He started to walk away.

“Wait! You’re alright?”

“Of course, Hagrid.”

“Last year—I’m sorry we were such right berks to you, Professor. Harry told us what had happened. It was a brave thing, that you did.” Hagrid threw the pebble then, and it bounced across the surface of the lake. Once. Twice. Four times. “You want some help with the boats?”

Snape inclined his head neutrally, and continued walking along the shore. Hagrid followed him, his shadow blocking out most of the summer sun. The groundskeeper smelt like the loamy earth, and he was wearing hides even though it was damnably hot. They walked on in silence. Snape wondered what was going on inside Hagrid’s mind. Hagrid had always been—well, they had never been close—but he had been more polite to Snape than his position as Potions Master warranted, always eager to help him collect potions ingredients, or to guide him through the more treacherous parts of the Forbidden Forest. Likely, Hagrid acted on the loyalty to Dumbledore—he always had been rather short-sighted when it came to his mentor.

“Here you are then, Professor,” Hagrid said, pulling the wooden door of the boathouse open. “Brilliant sailing weather!”

Before Snape could say anything, Hagrid was already pulling one of the boats into the lake.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you again, Professor.” Hagrid smiled at him behind his bushy beard. “You’ll always be welcome here.”

The words stirred something in Snape. He climbed into the boat and Hagrid pushed him from the shore with a short wave.

_Step Four. Grind fresh lavender flowers until aromas are released. Place one spoonful of lavender at each compass point. The potion should now have the colour and sheen of a white river pearl._

The breeze was cool on the face. He felt it prickle against his scalp. The oars rowed themselves; they knew the way to the Hogsmead pier. It was an excellent day for sailing, as Hagrid had said. The waters were calm and clear. He could see silver flashes of fish, and perhaps the waving tentacle of the Giant Squid.

Snape felt himself feeling lulled into sleep by the sway of the boat.

_Step Eight. Place a single drop of Lethe River Water in the exact centre of the potion. Let simmer on lowest heat._

“Sev.” Lily was older than he had ever seen her, floating somewhere between young adulthood and agelessness. Her auburn hair flowed weightlessly down her back as she stood in front of him, balanced precariously on the bow of the boat. She turned her smile on him.

He had dreamed of her smile for years—of her smiling at him petulantly, or joyously, or reluctantly. If only she were there. Alive. He wouldn’t care if she never looked at him. This smile was not like any he had imagined, but sharp and sad.

Lily’s eyes took in his still-bandaged neck and his spare body. “Oh Severus. You really shouldn’t have.” She reached for his face, her eyes burning.

He flinched back imperceptibly, but it was enough for this strange, dream Lily. She withdrew her hand almost instantly. “Lily, I—”

“You’re not ready yet. You can’t come with me.” That ethereal smile was still on her face, but she seemed to be fading somehow.

“Lily—please… I… Don’t leave…”

Lily’s voice was suddenly angry—this dream Lily was as volatile as she had been when they were both young, quick to anger and quick to strike back. “You’re not listening to me! I’m not leaving. And you’re not a child!”

The boat gave a jolt, and Snape’s eyes flickered open. He blinked away the sunspots in his eyes. Lily’s hand had ghosted over his chest before he was woken by the movement of the boat. He longed to touch her skin again. He wished that his own skin was of the same insubstantial make.

_Step Eleven. Half thirteen mistletoe berries. Place each half mistletoe berry, cut face down, into the mixture. Stir once counter clockwise after each half mistletoe berry._

Snape climbed out of the boat with a grunt. He tapped it with his wand, and it began to row itself back to the castle. Hogsmead was a little distant away; there was a small patch of woodland—a quiet place where the sky and the water met the green earth.

Even he could admit that the place was beautiful. The warm air smelt like flowers and pine needles and the rot of decaying leaves. He wanted nothing so much as to watch the clouds move over the scene, still and serene as though the whole place were painted on a postcard, or captured in a snow globe. And before he even realised, he was kneeling in the dirt, feeling the rush of warm air in his lungs.

Snape did not know how much time passed.

“What are you doing there?” Aberforth Dumbledore stared down at him, long grey hair and beard and familiar blue eyes. Dishevelled robes hung on his tall frame.

“Dumbledore?”

“Not the one you’re looking for, Snape. Come on, get up,” Aberforth held out a slightly dirty hand, which Snape ignored. He clambered to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees.

“What are you doing here?”

“I keep some animals over there, in a little clearing,” he gestured some distance away, “I sensed someone here. You’re well then, Snape? You survived.”

“Survived, yes, that’s one way to put it,” Snape said, before he considered what he was saying. Even Aberforth’s voice was a little like his brother’s, though a little lower and rougher. Snape could almost pretend that he was speaking to his old master again.

Master? Friend? Teacher? Snape heard the stories, saw Skeeter’s book. The truth of it all was still unknown to him, despite his having been a part of it.

Aberforth stared down at him—his eyes were not bespectacled—and his mouth twisted a little behind his beard. “You could do with a drink,” he said finally.

“Are you going to offer me sweets as well?”

“No,” Aberforth said, already striding away. Snape should’ve watched him go, but he followed.

The Hog’s Head was boarded up from the outside, having been damaged by Death Eaters and students during the Final Battle. The whole place was as grimy and dusty, shrouded in a weak light despite the sun outside.

Aberforth made to pour the both of them a glass of something, but Snape stopped him. “I did not come here for a drink—or a chat—or reminiscence.”

“Why then?” Aberforth leaned against the bar, picking up a rag as though by habit.

“I don’t know.” Snape swirled his finger in the thin layer of dust on the counter. He could see the rickety stairs leading up to that room—that room fixed in his memory, even after all this time.

“You want to go upstairs.” His bright eyes glimmered in the dark room, fixed on Snape’s face.

“Upstairs.” Before he was quite aware of having moved, Snape was staring into the dark void where the dusty stairs disappeared into the upper landing.

“Go,” Aberforth called from still behind the bar.

That day, almost twenty years ago, he had climbed the same stairs. There had been a din then, the pub had been filled up as much as it ever did, with all manner of outcasts.

The corridor was still grimy, the walls a greyish brown, the doors splintered. He expected pain—instead it was as though he only now became aware of a gaping emptiness inside his chest. Here was the door—the chipped blue paint, and the rusted keyhole. He had leaned down here, crouching almost on his knees. The ends of Trelawney’s shawls had been trailing on the ground, and then Albus had leaned down and shook her hand. Her face had been hidden, only her voice had quavered through the door. He had strained to hear her voice above the murmur of the patrons downstairs.

Then there had been a rough hand lifting him up by his collar. A pair of glinting blue eyes peering at him from the gloom. He had been pushed into the rain, without a chance to pull up his hood, so the droplets had fallen down his robe and made him shiver with cold.

He was cold again, when he was kneeling before the Dark Lord.

Those memories seemed as though they belonged to someone else—someone with more than a void where there should have been feeling.

“No use kneeling there.” The hand was rough as he remembered, the nails grubby despite the almost-elegance of the long fingers. Aberforth did not haul him up by the collar but had gripped his upper arm tightly.

“No use,” Snape repeated again, quietly.

There was something softer about Aberforth’s gaze as he looked down at Snape. “You should go. Or if you like, the offer of a drink still stands.”

Snape brushed the dirt off his trousers, and shook himself free of Aberforth’s grasp. “I think I shall leave.”

What was he doing here? There really was no use.

Aberforth watched Snape walk away with a frown. Out of all his brother’s soldiers who desired to sell their lives cheaply, he had always thought Snape the most eager.

 

 


	3. Another July 1998

_Lest the world, flesh, yea, devil put thee out_

 

_Step Seventeen. Prepare cypress oil. Add three drops of cypress oil to the potion. Stir clockwise until the potion darkens in colour. If made correctly, the potion at this stage should resemble the colour of a ripe pomegranate._

The house at Spinner’s End had not been occupied for over a year, and it smelt like it. The old family house had never been homey, but now it seemed utterly devoid of any possible comfort and warmth. But here was the dented dining room table, and here were the shelves of hardbacks his father used to collect. Only dust and old memories made their home here. He could see, even now, Wormtail’s shadow creeping about the stars and making little, pathetic sniffling noises.

Peter Pettigrew—unmourned after all these years on earth. But it would not do to feel sympathy alongside hatred.

Snape case a wordless cleaning charm over each room. The dust lifted somewhat, but the shabbiness of the Snape abode could not be denied. He threw himself into the mouldy couch, waiting for sleep to come over him—but it never did. He stared at the fraying green curtains, and thought of the grey mill town beyond those squares of material. Half the houses were empty in this street, and the other half were filled with ageing men and women worn down by life. And beyond all these streets, the accusatory chimney looking down on all of them.

Perhaps he could go to the corner store and pick up some groceries—some bread ad tea at least. But he was sure that the water had been shut off, and the electricity cut. There would have been no point anyway. No point getting out of the armchair, no point walking the half mile to the store. So, he sat in the old armchair and did not stir.

And when the light faded behind the curtains, Snape made his way upstairs and lay down in the bed he had owned since the age of thirteen. It had not been new when his parents had bought it. The bed had been stripped of blankets and the mattress was thin and lumpy. Snape lay away there for a long time, still fully dressed, until a dreamless and fitful sleep claimed him.

_Step Twenty-one. Add the prepared solution of twenty-six belladonna berries. Stir thirty-nine times clockwise. The potion now should emit a curling grey smoke from the surface._

When the morning came once again, his limbs were stiff and he was hungry. Yet he could not bring himself to rouse. He stared into the warped ceiling, wondering if any patterns could be found there, in the water stains. It was hot and stuffy in the tiny house, the summer heat making Snape’s shirt stick to his torso and plastering his hair to his forehead. But the feeling did not bother him. There was very little that bothered him—not the heat, nor the still healing wound in his neck.

Snape thought of the cauldrons beneath the kitchen bench, the silver knife on the mantelpiece, the collection of ingredients he had always kept locked in the pantry.

He recalled only that blazing look in Lily’s eyes. He could prove to Lily that he was worthy of her, despite what she had said. He was ready—he would be.

_Step Twenty-nine. When the potion has simmered for three minutes precisely, add a single marigold to the centre of the potion. Let it dissolve as it sinks to the bottom of the potion._

A sudden knock at the door. Surely no one he cared to speak to knew where he was… Burying his head in his hands, Snape tried to ignore the sound which echoed around the whole house, seeming to shake its very foundations. And the knocking stopped. Only to resume a few moments later.

Snape levered himself off the rickety bed and made his way down the stairs and to the front door. The knocking never ceased for more than a few seconds, though Snape took as long as humanly possible to reach for the knob and wrench it open.

“What do you want?” His voice came out even lower and harsher than he had expected.

To his surprise, instead of a particularly nosy neighbour, or a hostile utilities worker, he came face to face with Sirius Black. If he had been injured during the Final Battle, it had left no visible marks. Black was dressed in a rather ratty band shirt and dark trousers. With his long hair and wasted frame, he resembled an ageing guitarist from some hair metal band.

“Snape,” he said, “Didn’t think you would answer the door.”

“You _fucking_ imbecile! Why would you knock if you didn’t think I would answer?”

Black rolled his eyes, and showed no surprise at the rasp that was Snape’s voice. “Are you going to let me in?”

He pushed the door open, and sneered half-heartedly. Black looked around the dark and dilapidated house with a slightly bewildered glance.

“Sit down at your own peril, Black.”

Black followed him to the front room and sat down in the armchair that Snape had sat in the night before, which left Snape with the worn, floral print couch. It had been a piece of furniture scavenged from the refuse of wealthier parts of Cokeworth, like so much else in the house.

“So,” Sirius said, after some time, “are we going to be sitting here in silence?”

“You tell me. You’re the one who barged in.” Snape stared pointedly at the door.

“I get it—I’m not really welcome here. I don’t know. I don’t really know why I’m here. I just thought—I wanted to see if you were—if you were well?”

“We’re not friends.” Snape spat out the word as though it were filthy.

“You’ve made that perfectly clear,” Black said, “nevertheless…”

“I’m alive,” Snape whispered viciously, “now you’ve seen for yourself, you can go and tell your little friends… Gloat over your magnanimity…”

“Look, Snape, I don’t—I didn’t come here to _gloat_. I don’t want to argue.”

“I suppose I should thank you, then,” Snape said, sounding the very opposite of thankful, “Potter told me that you’re the one responsible for… Well I suppose you want to collect on that Life Debt…”

“There’s not need—no. It’s been more than a year since we—well it’s been a trying few months.” Sirius leaned forward, as though to touch Snape lightly on the shoulder. But Snape flinched back.

“Have you come here for what you didn’t get the last time, Black? Have you come to seek some _release_ now that you have an advantage to press? Now that I _owe you_?”

Sirius recoiled at the thought, his face twisted into a mask of disgust. “For fuck’s sake—Snape. Merlin, why would you think that? I didn’t—”

Black ran his hand through his hair. Tense silence stretched between them once again. Sirius could hear the heaviness of his own breathing. The fact that Snape would even think of something so twisted… So absurd…

“I didn’t do it for any sort of _sexual favours_ —that’s just—it was the right thing, okay? You don’t owe me a damned thing. But I do with wish you would be grateful. I wish you’d be grateful to be alive.” His words were met with nothing but silence.

Snape closed his eyes for a long moment. “Grateful to be alive,” he repeated quietly.

He tipped his head so that it lolled over his shoulders. It pulled at the still-healing wound in his neck. The same constellation of peeling paint. The same yellow-white sky he used to stare into on winter days when this room was the only room in which you would not freeze to death. One year, his father had had to smash up all the chairs in the dining room for firewood. That year, he had hardly felt the cold—because he had met Lily, and because he knew that he would soon be at Hogwarts, where the hearth fires never burned out.

If he prayed—if he would only fall asleep again—then he might see Lily. And this time, she would tell him that she knew he belonged with her after all. That he was ready to go to her at last.

The mustiness of the house, the lack of care in every inch of the space, was precisely what Sirius might have imagined of the Snape house at age eleven. Snape had not spoken for minutes; but he was not asleep.

“You need to get out of this house.”

Snape did not answer. Then quite suddenly, he sneered, “Like how you left your mother’s house?”

“That’s different. And, now that the war is over, I’m never setting foot there again. Harry needs a place to live close to the Ministry—so, it’s his now. I’ll get another place. Somewhere in the countryside, I think. Somewhere where I can always see the sky.” Black’s tone was wistful. “I’m free now—pardoned—I can do whatever I like.”

“ _You’re free to do—well, whatever._ That’s what your godson told me.”

“And that’s true, isn’t it?”

“How dare the two of you presume—to tell me! To say what I should do. Presumptive—the both of you!” Snape panted, and snarled, “Haven’t I done enough? I don’t want to—I don’t _care_ what you and _Potter_ think…”

Snape stood up abruptly. The effect was rather spoiled by the lack of his robes and cloak. Instead, it merely revealed the untidiness of the shirt and trousers he had slept in. The wrinkles would not come out easily. The gnawing in his stomach was now completely unbearable. And Black was irritating him with his flat, grey gaze.

“Where are you going? Snape? Wait!” Black followed him to the front door—like, well a dog.

“I’m going to get some food,” Snape said shortly.

“Right! I thought we were both going to starve.”

Snape turned and proceeded out the door without a word. He did not bother locking the door; the magical wards rippled as the both of them passed through.

Black followed him, just half a step behind. He turned his head here and there, as though the whole neighbourhood were an interesting exhibit at the zoo. Little had changed in decades—centuries even—so the squat, ugly houses might well have been preserved in a museum. Spinner’s End had hosted three Blacks now—a kind of perverse distinction perhaps, for an undistinguished place.

The river gurgled sluggishly, and Snape realised where he had been going. Over the river there would be a clearing where there used to be some rusted swings and a patch of dirt where kids played football or cricket. Beyond that, there would be streets—smooth asphalt and neat rows of houses. One of those houses would have begonias in the window sills, a neat arrangement of gnomes, and a rose-coloured door.

Of course, this house no longer existed.

Snape turned back the way he had come. Here was the local high street. There was the grocer’s, a display of wrinkled looking peaches in crates out the front. There was the tiny supermarket, weak florescent lights shining out the front window. But what really drew his eye was the small shopfront wedged in between the two others. A small blue sign hung in the window.

“We’re not quite open yet,” a gruff voice said, as soon as Snape had pushed open the door and Black had followed him inside.

“I’ll wait,” Snape said.

The old man, in his seventies at a guess, glanced up from behind the counter and grunted. He set aside the crossword he had been working on. “What d’you want then?”

“Haddock, chips and mushy peas,” Snape said.

The man nodded, “And you?”

“Uh, same,” Black said.

“Right.”

The scent of spitting oil soon filled up the shop. The fans turned noisily, but fruitlessly in the heat. Snape sat on one of the rickety chairs and stared into space silently. Sirius preferred to lean against the wall, his foot tapping restlessly against the tile floor.

The shopkeeper turned back to the crossword, but kept glancing up at Snape every few seconds.

“I thought I knew you,” the old man said, “You’re the Snape kid, right? You’re Toby’s boy. It’s been years. It was unfortunate—what happened to your da.”

“Yes,” Snape said shortly, staring back.

“Never thought I’d see you around here again… Toby was always in the pub, talking about how you went off to a fancy school up north. Scotland was it? Never thought you’d be back here, after heading off.”

“Is that so.” Snape’s voice was emotionless.

“You look—well, the nose is unmistakable.” He chuckled. “Not much of a talker, eh? Ah, well, I see—you were in an accident?” Gesturing towards Snape’s neck.

“Of a sort.”

“Toby was always saying—that boy is going to go get himself in trouble. That boy is going to go off to his fancy school, and I’ll never see him again, he used to say. But you’re back.” He shook his grizzled head. “I would’ve thought there’d be nothing left here for you. Your ma certainly never came back.”

Snape stiffened at the mention of his mother, a dark flush creeped up his face. But he did not seem angry. He remained silent, staring past the shopkeeper, who seemed to understand Snape’s taciturn response with equanimity.

“Here.” The till was rung up, and the paper-wrapped packages slid across the counter. Snape did not wait for the change.

Black hurriedly followed him out. The door with its little bell tinkled merrily behind them.

“Where are you going?” But Sirius could see where they were going, back along the cracked pavement, down to the river. Snape’s head was bent, and he was hunched over as he walked, as though he were fifteen again, James and Sirius and Peter all in pursuit.

Had it been the mention of his parents? Had it been the tone of wonder in the voice of the shopkeeper?

Back to the river, with its sluggish water and the stench of debris and patch of dry grass. Snape threw himself onto the ground and began to eat. How many times had he come here with a few coins stolen from his father’s pockets, pooled it with Lily’s pocket money, and bought food from the high street? How many times had he come here alone over summer holidays, wishing he was anywhere but here?

Near the base of the small and narrow bridge (wide enough for only a single car), there used to be a patch of fluxweed. The small pointed green leaves, and the tiny yellow blossoms had been hidden almost entirely behind long grass, growing out of the mud. Snape had waited until the moon was full to pick it, and kept the plant in a battered shoebox under the bed. It had dried out. Dried fluxweed was not as potent. The next summer, he had come back home to find nothing but dust there.

Would there still be some fluxweed there?

_Step Thirty-three. Stir until the potion lightens in colour. The potion reaches peak effectiveness and toxicity when it turns the colour of a pale blue, dawn sky._

Beside him, Black was eating noisily. He had almost forgotten the man was there. The old enmity had disappeared, so that he did not feel anything that he could truly name staring at the last of his old tormentors.

What would the potion taste like? No-one knew because no-one who had tasted it had lived to tell the tale. Perhaps it tasted as it looked, like the dawn of a new day. Like the end of some temporary darkness. A poison without an antidote.

“Hey, Snape,” Black said, “you going to say anything?”

“I didn’t realise I owed you a conversation.”

Black crumpled the wrapping paper in his hands. “I already said you don’t owe me anything. But are you—uh, you know—okay with all this?”

Black was obtuse in the extreme. Was this not the man who had spent twelve years in a prison, under the daily threat of having his soul rent from his body? How could he ask such things? Perhaps it was not the end of enmity he felt towards Black after all, but a hatred too deep for words.

At his silence, Black spoke haltingly. “I thought, when I had Wormtail and he escaped—I thought I had failed. I was ready for the Dementors to come, in that room. But afterwards, I was glad. Even though I was eating rats and hiding, even when I was in that horrible house with the portrait of my mother.”

Black tore at the paper in his hands, letting pieces of it be carried away by the breeze. “I wasn’t always glad. Sometimes I wanted to drink all the firewhisky in the house. Or go out and hex some Death Eaters who deserved it. But then—there was Harry, and Remus—and I—even you—I thought of…”

Snape heard Black’s heavy sigh in the air. It lingered there as though frozen in time. “I would never be ready for the Dementors or whatever else. Never ready. I may have thought that I was ready, but I never was. Not truly.”

“What are you trying to convince me of, Black? What did you want to say to me? Did you come here to convince me to _live_? Again? I know—is it some kind—kind of pet project of yours? Some sort of pity?” Snape forced the words through clenched teeth. “I don’t need it. I don’t need your talks. Your fucking words. I want you to leave. I want to never see you again.”

“Snape, please—I—”

“No.” At Black’s pleading voice, Snape felt something rise in his gorge. All those other times that he’d heard those words. Not just Dumbledore… But so many others—so many of whom had not believed that he would do anything at all. _Only those I could not save._ “Black, if you have ever thought that I wished to live beyond this _war_ , then you are wrong. My debt is forgiven. Therefore, I owe no-one. I owe my life to no-one. I had two masters, and now I have none. My life… It’s my own. And as you and your _friends_ reminded me so frequently and so often, it is not worth very much at all.”

The food was churning hard in his stomach, waves of nausea passing over him. He would not look at Black’s face. He imagined the smirk there—or worse—something soft there.

“So—just leave me alone. Leave. Don’t pretend to feel anything more than glee. Or _pity_. We’re not friends—we’ve never been _friends_. I don’t want anything from you, Black. You’ve done enough. It seems you’re determined to be the thorn in my side. You won’t even let me die in _pea_ ce. You would deny me even my _due_ —my place among the dead.”

“Have you said quite enough?” There was something cold in Black’s voice, something dark and unhinged. Something that made Snape want to see his eyes. He found Black’s face raw and pained as though someone had hit it, and something twisted moved its way over Black’s expression. “If you think you’re the only one who has regretted their life, then you’re stupid as well as you are blind. If you think people wouldn’t care if you threw your life away... Didn’t I just tell you… You’re not… I’m… You don’t have to be alone. You never believed in what we said. At Hogwarts—you wanted more than this, didn’t you? You wanted more than this.”

“More,” Snape screamed, as much as he could. His voice came out a gargle and a rasp. Then he crumpled into himself. His skin was burning, wasn’t it? The sun had burned it red. And the grass was rough against the palm of his hands, wasn’t it? And he could breathe, couldn’t he? But he felt as though he were drowning before he realised that these were tears falling from his eyes, and these were wet, heaving breaths that his lungs were trying to take in.

“ _More._ ” Snape whispered, “What _more_ is there? What horrors lie out there? Must I traverse them?”

“You need not _traverse_ them alone. Please. Please let me help you.”

That pleading in Black’s voice. Dumbledore had not sounded so plaintive. And Charity Burbage. Oh, _Charity_. A _friend_. He had seen the light disappear from her eyes in a flash of green. They had all left him alone. Begged him.

The river moved listlessly, heavy with rubbish and pollution. And over the bridge and through the streets—there lay all the geography of his childhood. Cokeworth, on a map, as familiar as the lines in Snape’s palm. But here was a new land. A new land Black was pointing him to. A city foreign to him, with winding streets and blind alleys. There would be nothing there that he recognised, but only the echoes of things he had once known. Not Cokeworth, with the house that the living Lily had once lived, and Spinner’s End, and decaying playgrounds.

Would the rivers run clear there?

He could be buried here in Cokeworth still, beneath these layers of dust. In the same place that perhaps he never left. Hogwarts. Snape thought of the hearth fires there—always warm, always burning. There was no want at Hogwarts, he had thought—he had believed. No lack and no cold. Hogwarts was still a dream. A beautiful and faded dream. He had never been to Hogwarts, that place without want. Snape was the boy huddled in Spinner’s End, burning the pieces of his own life to keep warm.

What is it that Lily had told him? That he was not ready? But he was finally worthy of her, after all, wasn’t he? He had been brave and selfless—and stared into the frightened, broken faces of those _he could not save_. He was not kind—but that was not his nature—and Lily would know that, and remember that. She would try to forgive him. If only he could take that last sleep into her world. _The colour of a pale blue, dawn sky._ If only he could go there.

There was no _more_ that he wanted.

Lily did not want him, and never had.

And he would see Dumbledore again, those twinkling eyes, as bright as the dawn sky. As infuriating as the old man had been, he had known Snape better than anyone—he had seen the facets as a whole, when others had been faced with a single flat side. Sometimes, Snape thought that he loved and hated Dumbledore in equal measure. To know the depths of a man, and still be content to make him suffer so—that took a rare quality. Dumbledore had it, and he never hesitated.

What would he say to the old man, on the threshold of death?

He thought of Aberforth Dumbledore, pulling him up from the dirt, and throwing him out the door that night. If only Aberforth had been quicker to notice the eavesdropper, the dirty spy crawling around the Hog’s Head, then… A thousand thousand moments when his life might have been different…

Lupin. Tonks. Fred Weasley. Colin Creevey. Lavender Brown. Vincent Crabbe. Dozens of other students. Why should he be here, when they were all gone? At the very end, he could not even do his duty by his students. He hated them, the idiotic buggers. He had still owed them his protection as teacher—then as Headmaster. What would he say to them, on the threshold of death?

Lily had never wanted him. And when he saw her—the only time he had ever seen her again—she had told him that he could not come to her. As though he had ever wanted to live once she was gone and dead and it was _his fault_. The spectre that he had seen was like Lily had been, but not _her_. So, what did it matter what she said?

He had tried to bury her, he _had_. Burned all her letters. Burned all her photographs. Ash could not be reconstituted, even with magic.

“Please, let me help you. You don’t need to do it.”

_It._ As though it was so disgusting the word could not be spoken. Black was still looking at him in a way that made him want to climb out of his skin.

“Snape. You said once that you saw the bottom of the pit that we’re all in. There’s light in that pit too. I’m learning to see it…”

He _had_ said something like that once, hadn’t he? Years ago, it now seemed like. Had he been posturing? Self-aggrandising? It seemed like a speech he would make, perhaps.

His sobs did not subside. Snape watched his body shake from each rattle as though he were standing beside himself. The tears had soaked through his shirt. It was as if he could not stop, as though he were falling further and further into a deep pool, and he had neither the strength in his arms or the will in his mind to climb out. Snape watched as Black watched him.

Snape did not remember the last time he had sobbed like this, with quaking yelps and shaking limbs. When he was young, when he cried, his mother and his father had often been elsewhere. They had been unheeding to his pleas. And he had learned quickly, as children inevitably do, to remain silent.

With each long sob, Snape felt as though he were being drained—as though he were being emptied from the inside out. Lily. Dumbledore. The prophecy. Voldemort. Each one was swaddled in a tear that slid down his face, and that fell away.

When he looked up again, he saw Black’s haggard face, and beyond him, the greyness of Cokeworth.

Snape’s eyes swam, and Lily’s gaze regarded him coldly. Her eyes were the colour of the grass, not the colour they were in life, but greenish-brownish and faded under the summer sun. Her hair was as dark as dried blood—and her lips, the same shade.

“Don’t come with me, Severus,” she said, her voice as rasping as his own.

This was not Lily, but a spectre of her, conjured up by his own tears. And guilt. This Lily was moved by him. She leaned forward, and her hair swung into her face. When they were children, the real Lily sat with him here, their legs crossed, the sun scorching their backs. Snape could see the tip of this ghost’s nose, the fan of freckles there like a constellation in miniature.

Reaching forward, Snape snatched this Lily’s hand from the grass, and cradled it in his own. She looked up at him then, her gaze still cold. He could feel the words hovering again in the space behind her lips. It was what she would always tell him. Lily was smiling before—she was not now. Lily’s gaze was as changeable as his own moods. He bid her goodbye as she flickered and disappeared in the space between a blink.

No longer shaking, the ground was solid beneath him. And now, his legs were taking him to the edge of the river, but he did not stop at the edge.

The mud sucked at his shoes, and collected on his trousers. The water was not cold, but a tepid temperature. At the centre of the river, the water only came up to his chest. It smelt thick and oily. Here, he could push his head underneath the surface, breathe in the dirt and the shit of the river. But he kept his head up in the air, finding each step, his feet scrabbling against the riverbed.

He imagined the greyish water flowing against the wound in his neck, pushing inwards even as blood fought to flow out. The two mingling. But the wound in his neck was healed, the flesh stitched up.

“Snape!” Black’s voice cut through his reverie. Black plunged into the river after him, something bewildered in his eyes.

Snape watched as he waded in, still, still. When Black was close enough, Snape said, “I believe it.”

Tears dripped from the tip of his nose, and struck the surface of the water with little chimes, like the muted cracking of glass. Black bridged the final distance between them. Snape’s hand was cold and still in his, beneath the surface of the water.

Black kissed him softly on the mouth. Snape made no movement—he did not resist, nor did he kiss Sirius back.

“Is that okay?” He could not see any expression in Snape’s shuttered face.

Snape eyes flickered away. “No,” he said.

Sirius felt his heart sink. “I—”

“Not right now—but maybe—after. Time. I need time. To learn. To do—whatever. If you’d still like to—” Snape was staring at something far away, something below the water perhaps, “After some time—I _might_ …”

“Of course—I’m here. Time will be good for both of us— _Severus_.” Sirius looked at him as though he could not help but smile.

There was something right about this, something right about hope. At last.

The water swirled around them both. The summer sky was blue and cloudless above the dirty old town.

 

 


End file.
